Some Still Remember
by Neverstop13
Summary: The Bureau's entire mind was supposedly reset using the serum. But then how did this trilogy come to be? What if it's real and there are still some who remember parts of what happened? A fictional one-shot about how Divergent could've been encouraged to Veronica Roth. (Please remember, this isn't real or true at all. Not offending Veronica at all. Slight Allegiant spoilers.)


**So I got the idea of this short one-shot while I was finishing reading Allegiant (Which is a wonderfully, beautiful book that made me cry. Veronica Roth, you have done an amazing job) and wondered Wouldn't it be cool if the reason Veronica wrote this was because she was part of the Bureau when she was younger and remembered some of what had happened? (Obviously that wouldn't exactly be a good thing since it'd be pretty awful to live in a life like that..)**

**Now, obviously, that's not true. Time periods are off and stuff, but I couldn't help myself, I had to write out the idea.**

**And, obviously, I'm not Veronica Roth. This is most likely NOT AT ALL how get her idea for this wonderful trilogy, that's why this story is for entertainment ONLY and is put on FanFiction.**

**And, I didn't write Divergent. I didn't come up with it's ideas. This is not mine, it all belongs to Veronica Roth. **

**I do not own Divergent. Though I wish I were Dauntless because of the chocolate cake:3 **

**(There will be slight spoilers to Allegiant).**

* * *

The thought struck her almost immediately as she heard the word.

_Dauntless._

It sounds just as dangerous as it means. As in bravery, as in courage, as in freedom. Freedom of the mind, of the body, as in something not very many people can put themselves through, due to fear.

She tapped the eraser numb of her pencil against her lips in thought. She could imagine people jumping onto trains, imagine them running free, not carelessly or ferociously, but like free spirits that just need that escape. Need to run wild. Need that freedom from normal.

_Normal_—boring. Bland. Trite. Mediocrity. Everything that she's not—not on the inside. She's dauntless and that thought makes her smile.

Normal…it means Abnegation. It means always doing the right thing the correct way. It means—

Her eyes skirt around the park she is at, sitting on a bench, with her notes out, beside the city of Chicago. Where the tall buildings loom over her, but not enough to scare her. Enough to feel at home. Enough for her to think about the dauntless like her who roams these streets. The air is cool, nice and calm, but the sun is still shining up above, the one thing that is higher than the buildings. Her thoughts may have been running wild about this idea of hers, one that she wishes to share with the world, but on the outside, she looks calm, at peace. For now.

_Peace_. Another important element of humanity, of life, of getting through. Peace as in happy; as in willing; as in forgiving; as in always there—participating—joining. Living, but not like the Dauntless, but like the Amity. The ones who are not afraid of inner confidence, whereas the Dauntless strive for strength instead. The two are very different. Confidence as in to bring together to help, strength as in to do for pleasure.

Normal. It means the people around her, living their everyday lives, not knowing what was to come. Only focusing on the right thing, doing the right thing. That was Abnegation.

They were all one of the greatest parts of living life. You need all of it…but to separate it. Like a schism, like a large piece of glass breaking into different pieces—

A woman walked by her, rushing as she gripped her child's hand. She had long blond hair that, due to the wind and her half-jogging, half-walking, blew around her face in strands. She was talking hurriedly on the phone, saying frantically that she was on her way, and could only readjust the strap of her purse by rotating her shoulder.

"Christina, would you please hurry up!" The woman urged over her shoulder.

The teenager that walked behind her and the small child had her head bent down at her phone, her thumbs working to build sentences on the small screen. "I'm coming, Mom, gosh!" the girl sighed as if she had better things to do.

The woman didn't seem to notice as she kept gripping the hand of the little boy who was holding a phone in his hand, too.

She furrowed her eyebrows at that. A boy, at such small age, also has his eyes fixed on a small screen. She shook her head a little and over his shoulder, she got a glimpse of a little kid's show playing.

Phones. Technology continues to grow these days, and it's not very surprising it's one of the things that strike up the thought of a dystopian government.

But, she couldn't blame it. It was the main thing that helped humanity's knowledge grows to new heights. It was a remarkable subject, knowledge. It is amazing how curiosity blooms through one fascination of the human eye.

She watches them walk past her, not giving her a second glance.

Another idea comes to her. Knowledge is also a great element of humanity that, every day, stretches far and wide across the planet. Without it, we possibly wouldn't be in the world where we are today.

But not knowledge as in school-learning. No textbooks are involved with it, not just being smart like a nerd or geek. Knowledge does not mean being smart. It means processing, it means analyzing—seeing details and concluding about how they fit into the subject—things that no one else would care to stare at. It is something special that will always be a major part of people, whether they like it or not. It is the fascination to discovery. It is…_Erudite_.

Erudite, as in finding out more, as in opening the brain up to things it has never witnessed before. As in finding out the truth of our planet and its secrets and crevices.

What is the truth? The truth to who we are, the truth to what is right, to what is seen. Always promising to speak the mind, to not hold absolutely anything right. The truth is a deep dark monster inside of us that wants to be heard that will destroy with guilt if not. The truth that does not care if it hurts someone, because it only wants to help realize what is the problem.

The truth is always out there, in the air, in everyone's minds, in the memories, in the teeth and tongue that work together to speak it. As in Candor. As in another part of nature.

They're all things we see in people…they work together to build one person. Though, most people favor only one.

What would happen if that were exaggerated? What if it turned into a schism?

It almost seems like a distant memory.

What if that was the reason for dystopian environments—that people focus on one element and one element only. No one acts as a whole anymore; always traitors and family and secrets and lies. The reason for tyrants.

_Just like Jeanine,_ she thought.

She scribbled on her notes.

She had all the factions. What about characters? The main character—a girl, one who resembles her. But her name? Her name…

It tugged at the back of her mind, trying to retrieve a name to fit the face. Blond-haired, blue-eyed, small, fragile. And an elegant ink of art on her collarbone. Ravens, for those she has lost, and for wanting freedom.

And definitely Four. She bit on the eraser nub again, but then realized what she was doing and took it out immediately. Not the time for her nervous habits, she told herself. She hadn't quite begun on why Four. Why he chose Dauntless…for escape—from what?

Her brain waited for the answer.

Parents. Like that girl, Christina, she would definitely be a Dauntless.

Christina? Would that be a good name?

_No_, something told her. _That's not right. That's not who she was—is_.

That's not who this mystery character is.

She sighs, the answer, for some reason, not coming to her. She decides that the bench is getting too sturdy for her comfort so she gets up, taking her pencil and notes with her, and walks away from it.

The wind tousles her short hair and she slides her palm down her jeans to wipe the sweat off of them. She's nervous, thinking, letting all of her ideas and thoughts pour into her notes. Walking sometimes help. It eases the mind.

Her footprints leave trails on the sidewalks and roads throughout Chicago, and somehow, in her eyes, she can see this place almost deserted. Separated. Used for things far worse than living. She looks up at the sky, clear blue, but all she sees, her mind still thinking about a dystopia, is like an experiment. Being used to test these different factions.

She could feel the presence before the body. She jumped, startled, as she and another person collided. She should've been watching where she was going instead of looking up above. But it's enough to make her drop her notes, the few loose pages scattering and skipping in the wind.

The man she bumped into leaned down and picked them up before they could fly away. His actions were fast, and right on time, as if he'd done fast movements before and were now too used to it.

A sigh of relief escaped her mouth as she found that those papers were secured in his grip. She picked up her notebook and pencil that had rolled a few feet away. She turned back to the man.

And blinked. He was handsome, his body strong and lean. His face was angular and well-tanned. Blue eyes looked back at her, a nose with a small crook in the end, dark hair that tumbled over his forehead and onto his thick eyebrows, white coloring standing out of the darkness like snowflakes. This told her he was about middle-aged. He gave her a small smile, the scruff lining his jaw curving with his generosity.

But his eyes were what told her his generosity had been difficult. His blue eyes were darker on the outside and looked as though it was a circle of glass waiting to be shattered, like they had seen things that no one should ever see.

But they weren't looking at her. They were looking at her notes.

The thick eyebrows furrowed together as he read the words. That was the paper she had written down the faction names on: Dauntless, Abnegation, Amity, Erudite, and Candor.

Then his eyes met hers, and they weren't warm with kindness from a stranger. They were of shock, panic, and almost like he had seen her before.

She tried to seem as though she had realized this and gave him the smile he should've given her. "Thank you so much, I was afraid I'd lose them," she tells him and begins to take back the pages.

He still gives her that stare, but says, "You're welcome…" and trails off. He glances at the pages again. "What are those words for?"

She shrugs and studies him. He's a stranger; should she tell him?

_Be a Candor_, she tells herself.

"It's an idea for a book," she says.

His expression can't be read. "Oh," he says softly, "what book?"

"Mine. One that I'm writing—or trying to, at least," she chuckles.

He nods and then suddenly realizes he's still holding onto the papers. He lets go. "What's it called?" he asks.

"I'm not sure yet."

He clears his throat and is pushing his tongue against the back of his teeth as if he's wanting to say something, but isn't sure if he should or not. Like he's afraid.

She frowned; she thought he would be a Dauntless or Amity. Now he just seems Abnegation.

She dips her head. "Is there something you'd like to say?" she asks nervously. The air is getting hot and awkward on her skin.

"Well, I was just going to say that you forgot one," he points to the papers.

She blinks hard and furrows her eyebrows. "What?"

"You need a word that fits something else. One that doesn't mean any of those."

"Those what?"

"_Those_," his calloused finger lands on the word Dauntless. "You can't just have it all separated. You need something that'll dominate,"

_Okay_, she thought, _this is getting creepy. This_ supposed _stranger is trying to help me with my book he doesn't even know about…_

"Why do you say that?"

He shrugs. "Just seems right. And it'll add conflict into the story." He gives a sigh that makes his chest go in deep and she couldn't almost hear his thoughts: _Conflict is an understatement_. Like he knows what that means.

"What do you suggest this new group should be?"

"Something strong." His voice is suddenly very light. "Something that would do anything to save others. Something that isn't either of those other words."

_This is even weirder,_ she thinks.

As if he can also hear her thoughts, he shrugs. "I don't know, it's your book. I'm just sayin',"

"No, no, it's okay." She says. She may be a little creeped out, but he's right. He's helping her. And she can't help but be curious.

He narrows his eyes at her. "You're an author; you should be able to think of a word. You don't need my help, unless if you remember."

_Remember? What is that supposed to mean,_ she thought. But she didn't let that bother her. Somehow, the word appeared in her head. Strong and bold, just like he described it. "Divergent." She says.

His eyes widen and he stares at her, his shock overwhelming him. "How can someone remember?" he mumbles slightly to himself, where she can't hear.

"Well maybe you can help me with something else I'm having trouble with," she suggests.

"No, no, I couldn't," he takes a step back.

"_Please_," she reaches out for him. "It's bugging me; I really need your opinion on this as well."

He sighs, studying her, and then he regains his step he had taken back. "Okay, what is it?"

"Well, I need a name for the main character," she explains. And she begins to describe to him the small girl with blond hair.

With each adjective, his eyes widen and his frown deepens, as if the thought saddens him, but makes him more astonished. When she is finished, he nods.

"What do you think?"

"Beatrice." He immediately says.

She can't help but arch an eyebrow and cock her head to the side a little. "Huh?"

"Or…her nickname could be Tris."

She blinks hard. That name felt familiar to her. But she feels the smile creeping up on her face. Tris. She liked that name. It was a good name. "Tris," she tries it out loud. "I love it. Thank you."

He nods. "No problem," and steps back again.

But she halts him again. "Wait, can I know your name? You helped me, and if this book ever gets published, well…I'd like to add you to the acknowledgments."

He gives a polite smile, like he was taught to in his faction, and shakes his head a little. "You don't have to do that. I was just being nice."

"But—"

"Please, miss," he says, and she decides not to press on by the firm look in his eyes.

She closes her mouth and nods. "Sorry," she says but then offers out her hand to shake. "Well if you would like to know my name to find this book if it gets published, then I'm Veronica. Veronica Roth."

He looks at her hand, as if considering it, then reaches forward and presses his palm to hers, shaking it. His eyes are back to excitement. His grip is slightly firm, and Veronica can now see the Dauntless in his eyes.

"Just call me Tobias," he says.

"Tobias?" she echoes. "That's a nice name."

He nods. "Thanks, only my closest friends call me by that name."

She smiles. "Thanks, again,"

Tobias begins to turn away. "No problem," and then he walks away.

Well, she thought. Maybe he won't be in the acknowledgments, but…who knows? The imagination runs wild and can lead you anywhere.

"Oh, and Veronica?" Tobias's voice calls out to her.

She turns back around and finds him facing her a few feet away, slowly walking backwards.

"I've never written a book before, but I can guess it's difficult sometimes,"

She chuckles. "Yeah,"

"Just be brave. I know you'll get through it."

Suddenly, it does not sound so creepy anymore. It sounds…encouraging.

Veronica grins. "Spoken like a true Dauntless,"

He laughs and walks away, but she could've sworn she heard him say, "You have no idea."

* * *

**So if you thought this was an update on my other stories and was disappointed to find that it is not, I do apologize. I promise I'm working on those next chapters it's just that school has caught up with me suddenly and I'm very busy. Please be patient! :)**

**Let me remind you that I'm not Veronica Roth or Tobias, I don't own Divergent at all, I just thought this would be a pretty cool idea. So review or favorite if you liked it. (You can follow, but I don't exactly see a point because it's just a one-shot, I'm not going to continue.)**


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